She went on with a heavy, mock solemnity, in the loud voice,
"Oh, hark, I hear the church-bells ringing;
Will you come and be my wife?"
She pinned the bandage in place at the back of Mark's head,
"Or, dear Madam, have you settled
To live single all your life?"
She gathered the child up to her, his head on her shoulder, his face turned to her, his bare, dusty, wiry little legs wriggling and soiling her white skirt; and sang, rollickingly,
"Oh no, John, no, John, NO!"
"There, that's all," she said in her natural voice, looking down at Mark. She said to herself rebelliously, "I've expended enough personality and energy on this performance to play a Beethoven sonata at a concert," and found she was quoting something Vincent Marsh had said about her life, the day before.
There was a moment while the joke slowly penetrated to Mark's six-year-old brain. And then he laughed out, delightedly, "Oh, Mother, that's a beaut! Sing it again. Sing it again! Now I know what's coming, I'll like it such a lots betterer."
Marise cried out in indignant protest, "Mark! When I've sat here for ten minutes singing to you, and all the work to do, and the sun getting like red-hot fire every minute."
"What must you got to do?" asked Mark, challengingly.